


Infernal Dissent

by NorthSouthGorem



Category: Original Work
Genre: CYOAs, Demon MC, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, Grand scale, Multi, Powerful MC, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27811567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthSouthGorem/pseuds/NorthSouthGorem
Summary: When humble blacksmith Madron stumbles across something he shouldn't and is killed, his soul does not simply burn in hell. No, instead, he is transformed into something far, far greater. A maker of epic proportions. A force who will shake the nine circles to their very foundations.Uses Troy X's Ascension Meta CYOA and Archdemon Ascension.
Kudos: 5





	Infernal Dissent

Chapter 1: The Fall

The hammer struck with a repeated, efficient manner, banging with a metallic ring against the edge of the shield held in the forge’s vise. Madron Cheval’s brow furrowed in deep concentration as he pored over his work. His job was almost finished, all that remained was to make sure that the shield’s edges were perfectly smooth, all the impurities hammered out and ready to be sent to the runesmith for enchanting.

It rankled the man that in times like these, just making a good, sturdy work of metal wasn’t good enough for people these days. With people in the ass-end of nowhere summoning up demons for shits and giggles, the world’s kingdoms and empires were always calling up their citizens to ‘do their part.’ Madron snorted. _Yeah, and make sure they don’t have to spend all their precious capital on an_ actual fucking military!

Blacksmithing was something he’d always done, having been apprenticed to his father from a young age and learning how to turn ingots of iron into fine steel. He’d even managed to work with Cold Iron and Darksteel once or twice, though those had only been enough to make spearheads with.

All in all, it wasn’t as if he had much to complain TOO much about. He was given a monthly quota of armaments and tools to craft by the city, which he always met and was paid well for, in addition to commissions by adventurers. Sure, he often had to take those commissions downtown to the enchanter’s, but it wasn’t like he had much else to traverse the city for.

Even so, the metal-worker found himself… _lacking_ something. With his parents gone, there was nothing and no one waiting for him at the end of the day. He was alone, with just his work to keep him occupied.

Half an hour later with the sander, the commissioned shield was ready. He grunted in satisfaction, examining its rounded edge for any leftover dents. The surface had been dulled evenly, a smooth, circular, subtle swirling pattern that only an artisan like him could identify reliably. _No hero wannabe would even notice something like this,_ he thought, snorting with derision, _They’ll be more focused on the runes that that spindly-fingered, self-important weed Cenul will put in it. Prolly won’t even know what they even mean, the dumb bastards!_

Sighing heatedly, he slid the shield into a leather bag and set about packing away his equipment. Best not to leave the forge unattended, however long he’d be out.

Madron shrugged the bag onto his shoulder, rubbing a calloused hand over an unshaven face as he exited his shop, locking it behind him. A tired, bitter face glowered back at him from the door’s window, brown eyes set in an unfriendly frown, hidden under a mess of unkempt blonde curls. With a face like his and his broad, brawny physique, it was little wonder that the ordinary city folks avoided him in the streets.

He stumped down the way to the train station, considering signalling a cab out of the many vehicles soaring through the airways above him. It was a true rarity to see a ground-bound mode of transportation in big cities, where the local Hynsel temple caused a massive boom in tech.

It seemed that today was some sort of festival, because even as he climbed the steps for the monorail station, the blacksmith noticed an almost obnoxious amount of couples walking around, hand in hand. His jaw clenched bitterly as he saw woman after young woman acting all soppy with various men, even orcs and scale-hided lizardmen. The looks of adoration in their eyes made his heart ache, especially when those eyes turned looks of nervousness or even aloof disdain onto him.

Eventually, he averted his eyes from the sights altogether and stomped on, purchasing a ticket to the western district, Cloudsink Layer. _A pretentious name for a pretentious tightass,_ he thought, not for the first time, as he stepped into the train.

The ride across the city was uneventful, of course, if a bit monotonous, as was the walk from the station to Cenul’s workshop. The elf was absent, unfortunately, apparently having decided to close up shop early for whatever reason. “Typical,” muttered Madron, dumping the bag at the front door, “Well, whatever. It’s on him now.” He knew that the bag would remain there unbothered- this was a well-to-do part of town, and no one would be interested in a blank, plain shield like that anyway. He hadn’t even attached the handles yet, so it would be useless to a typical thief.

“Hm...maybe I’ll close up for today too,” he mused to himself, even as he turned around and headed back towards the train. As he did so, however, an unusually large amount of movement around the stairwell caught his eye. A group of people in dark suits emerged from the station, looking so bored and ordinary that he almost went back to ignoring them… but one of their number stopped his gaze.

This gaggle of generic people, humans, elves and orcs, stood in a tight-knit ring around a woman, as if trying to shield her from sight. But there was no hiding her. She was a half-elf, judging by the relatively short points of her ears, but her smooth pale skin shimmered with faint, indistinct color, like some fae creature. Her hair, cut in a short bob, was an odd shade of straw blonde, but also mixed with a shade of green. She was gazing around with a sort of innocent curiosity, clearly a country-girl, or at least from outside the city.

Madron hadn’t realized that he was staring until the woman suddenly looked his way, brown eyes meeting an unearthly yellow. Her soft pink lips spread in a happy smile, a sort of non-verbal greeting.

Deep in his chest, Madron’s heart thudded, and something even deeper began to thrum.

He and the group continued in opposite directions down the street. But even as he reached the top of the stairs, he stopped, hand on the rail. The smile she gave him remained fixed in his head. _She’s fae,_ he told himself, _That’s what they do. They ensorcel people, draw them in, use them…_

He turned to look after the group.

The people she’d had surrounding her…there was no way around it; they looked suspicious as hell. Even a tricky Fae girl would have some sort of equally crafty look about them if she knew people like that, not innocently oblivious.

The blacksmith watched them some more, listening to his heart beating for a few seconds. He began following them.

While he was no Rogue, Madron at least _knew_ how to be quiet. He kept far behind the group at all times, ducking behind signs and the corners of buildings, at least as much as his bulky frame would permit. His eyes never left the shady ring of men, even as other people passing him gave him an aside glance and steered clear.

All the while, however, no one noticed a dark, shadowy figure clinging to the walls of the buildings, high above the large man’s head and crawling after him with much better stealth.

It was slow going, and trying on Madron’s patience. He gritted his teeth, shifting about agitatedly, following doggedly behind the group from a distance. He could see that green-yellow head of hair bobbing above them like a beacon, keeping his curiosity roused.

Eventually, they turned away from the street, and the blacksmith blinked as he realized that they had walked all the way to the city square, and were climbing up the steps to Hynsel’s temple. “A place like this...was she just a priestess after all?” he asked himself, scratching his head, “Is she a novice? Why would a novice need a bunch of suits like that around her?”

Working his jaw thoughtfully for a moment, he decided to keep following them. This mystery was starting to become interesting.

As expected of the most powerful god in the entire region, the temple was vast and grand, with a long, sweeping set of shallow sandstone steps leading up to the entrance. People came by all the time to pray for a bit of inspiration, or luck with studying. Madron had never been the inventing sort of blacksmith, so he’d hardly ever been to the temple himself. As such, he couldn’t help but be a little awed at the interior. Bookshelves and tables of blueprints lined the walls, the former reaching all the way up to the ceiling, most likely tributes given by worshippers. Scribe-monks walked back and forth, exiting and entering the many side-rooms with their heads down. A strange, serious atmosphere pervaded the expansive space, stifling all outside noise and pressing in on him, making the burly man feel unusually small.

Up ahead, Madron caught sight of a flash of bright hair vanishing behind a door. “Right. Here for a reason,” he mumbled to himself, starting forward.

Behind him, an indistinct figure stood in the doorway, before blurring away.

No one stopped the blacksmith as he strode down the way, his shoes making little noise in the oppressive atmosphere. The monks didn’t even look up as he pulled open the door through which he’d spotted the woman and entered through it.

Inside, while the hall continued, it was nowhere near as large and grand as the entrance. The light-crystals affixed to the ceiling threw off a colder blue-green glow, and the stone making up the floor and walls was different. It was almost like marble, but colored blood red and a sickly yellow. “Creepy…” he grunted, rubbing at the back of his neck. His hair was starting to stand on end just being there.

Agitated, he kept walking, this time with the sound of his footsteps echoing loudly down the passage. While the atmosphere no longer deadened the noise, now something else charged the air, saturating it with such power that even he could feel it.

All the doors looked the same, made of dark wood, and were almost all locked. He _could_ have broken through if he really wanted...but he was nowhere near stupid enough to break something in a temple. He’d heard enough stories as a child of the curses an angry god could lay down. However, the second to last door on the right was different, in that it was a set of double doors. Madron hesitated even as he reached out to take the handle, the hairs on his arm prickling. The intense aura that had filled the hall was at its absolute strongest around this door. It was here that he would find that strange, unearthly beautiful young woman, he knew it.

Steeling himself, he finally closed the distance and grasped the handle, preparing to turn it…only to stiffen in surprise as something moved out of the corner of his eye. The next door down swung open slowly, seemingly of its own volition. Madron bit his lip, pondering what to do; he still had to see what was going on. He _had_ to. But if someone was about to come out and see him…

“Tch.” Gritting his teeth, he pressed himself against the wall and sidled towards the open door, keeping his eyes on it. Finally, he sprang in front of it, prepared to face whoever was on the other side…

But there was no one there. In fact, the sight that greeted the blacksmith was that of a tiny, dimly-lit broom closet. “Huh?” His brow furrowed as he stared into the small, empty room. “...Who opened this, then?”

And then, the woman who had been following behind him the whole time said, “I did.”

Madron stiffened, then whirled around, fists clenched, only for a blow like one of his hammers to strike him dead in the chest. All the breath in his lungs whooshed out, eyes bulging, and _pain_ erupted throughout his body as his ribs cracked. He was lifted off his feet and slammed into the back of the closet, grunting as the narrow confines squeezed his thick arms together, leaving him unable to struggle sufficiently.

He panted and wheezed as his assailant stepped forward. She was clad in form-fittingly tight, elaborate black armor that left her flawlessly smooth, toned belly and thighs bared. A cybernetic mask covered the lower half of her face, leaving only a pair of scarlet eyes to bore into his. Instinctively, primally, Madron understood that this woman was conceptually above him, stronger than him in every way. She was a goddess, or at least a demigoddess. “Mortals…ought not to stick their noses where they didn’t belong,” she sneered, pulling out a black sickle, its blade glowing the same red as her eyes, “Least of all pathetic ironworkers without a single deed to their name.”

With a gasping cry of effort, Madron pushed himself forward, shoving the goddess away, only for her to knock his hands aside, hand blurring and blade flashing. His throat burned, suddenly and his breath stopped. When he felt his neck, he discovered a large gash that had been ruthlessly carved through his flesh, bleeding out fast. He stumbled, knees weakening already, only for a hand to grasp his shaggy hair and hold him upright.

“On the other hand, even a mortal’s loose lips up in Heaven would cause problems for us. **Madron Cheval...I consign your soul to Hell! May the Nine Circles judge your living sins!”**

The blacksmith could barely parse her words, his vision blurring and growing indistinct already. Blood bubbled and dribbled from his lips and slashed throat, along with a quiet gurgling as he tried and failed to breathe.

His last sensation was an unpleasant, hot, prickly sensation rising up his body, from toe to head. The hall around him vanished, and suddenly he was falling. The pain of his throat mysteriously faded away, but he barely noticed from the wind howling in his face. His eyes watered from the force, but even squinting there was no missing the water below him. A vast river stretched out below him, a serpentine mass flowing on and on into the dark horizon, drifting and undulating in the black abyss.

No…not an abyss. Opening his eyes wide, the newly-departed soul realized that around the strange river, there lay a tremendous cityscape, made of cold, dark metal. Vast, sprawling armies marched and flew every which way, making sure to skirt the river. Standing over it all, towering all the way up to the height of his fall, was an unfathomably vast black pyramid, the top of which was lined by a golden glow.

And still he fell, so fast that the air almost felt solid. Before he knew it, the ground was zooming up towards him, only to miss him entirely. Madron screamed, though the sound went unheard as a great, gaping hole in the ground opened up to let him pass, falling down into an endless abyss, with only a massive stormhead underneath. Its size was such that rather than reaching it within seconds like he’d expected, he had to fall for another few minutes. 

In what seemed both far too soon and an eternity, the blacksmith found himself plunging straight into the storm. Instantly the wind roared and howled at him, pulling him in many directions, but at the same doing nothing to slow down his fall. Raindrops flew up past him, unable to keep up with his speed, swirling all around him. There was an incandescent flash of light, along with an ear splitting boom, and Madron screamed out in agony as lightning tore through his body. Over and over the searing plasma struck from from the clouds, drawn towards him and chaining between raindrops to get to him.

By the time the man left the storm, plummeting out of its rainy underside, his eyes had rolled up. Smoke drifted off his scorched flesh, stubble completely burned away by the lightning, but still he retained consciousness. _This is Hell…?_ he thought hazily, barely even able to twitch as he plunged down towards a black ocean below him.

After being struck by lightning and more or less being burned to a crisp, one would have expected the icy waters to have provided some kind of relief for Madron. But it was not to be. He struck the surface with the force of a speeding missile, the surface tension more or less acting as solid ground. Now, in addition to having been scorched alive (such as it were), the dead man felt as if his bones were being smashed into powder. And even _that_ didn’t stop him; he plowed straight into the dark sea, kicking up a massive plume that, bizarrely, remained as black as the waves.

The water was, of course, cold as ice and dark as night. Colder, in fact, sapping out all the heat in the former blacksmith’s burned body with a voracious hunger. And yet, he stayed awake, his heart pounding…no. His heart had long since stopped. Something else was beating and pulsing inside his chest, pushing out more heat no matter how much the sea drained away.

But then, out of the darkness, dozens of slimy blobs coalesced around him, swirling with blazing red eyes and spiralling mouths. They latched onto his ruined flesh and began to spread, skin, muscles and bone alike dissolving to make way for more of the amorphous blight. Madron screamed and thrashed, mindless of how he had no air and yet was not drowning. The denizens of the dark ocean dug into him, devouring his body ravenously and multiplying, until the human blacksmith was completely lost amid the distorting black and red mass.

However, even as they spread deeper, something else spread back through them. A warmth, alien to their primitive consciousnesses, along with a glow.

 _“Ge_ **_t...the fu_ ** _ck o_ **_ff_ ** _me…!”_

There was a flash of cyan light, a shockwave rippled out through the water, smashing the other monsters back into the water-borne bacteria that they’d formed from. Meanwhile, the ones that ate at his body writhed, their misshapen eyes widening and rolling with agony of their own as a deep tolling sound, audible only to them, rang through them. A consciousness far, far greater than their own swelled from within, instantly squashing them and subverting them to its will.

In an instant, Madron’s pain vanished. He felt whole again, but different somehow. The dark, cold water still pressed in all around him, but now it seemed almost like it was ignoring him, and he could see vast, larger red-eyed beasts moving in the distance. Now that he didn’t have unbearable agony tearing through his body, he actually felt his soul throbbing and humming within him, resonating in a way that drove back the unbearable presence of the world around him. It was an effect that he’d subconsciously noticed ever since he’d first set eyes on that mysterious girl.

The memory of that half-elf, and her bright, innocent smile being directed at him, put just a little strength back into his restored muscles. Unfortunately, it did nothing to change the fact that he was _still_ falling.

With the abyss of an ocean flowing all around him, he didn’t even notice that he was still dropping like a stone until, with a splash, he reached the bottom and fell out of the sea, back into empty space with a cry of surprise. And then it was back to tumbling end over end, this time with a new vista before him. Below him, as far as the eye could see, there stretched out a map of lights, glittering off tight-knit groups of strangely twisted buildings; another city. As they drew closer, he saw that they were buildings, growing out of the ground in bizarre shapes and, despite the crooked crevices dividing them into squares (streets?), they all fit together perfectly.

More importantly was the tremendous moon that hung in the air, just level with him, the sea above rippling in waves towards its position. It was a perfect sphere, throwing off a faint, pale light. Only a single crater marred its surface, at least that he could see. For a moment, it felt almost like he was gazing upon a massive eye…

But then he continued falling, and the sensation passed, the moon growing more and more distant, while the ground approached. By this point, however, Madron’s fear of impact had abated, replaced instead by a gnawing terror? _Would_ he ever stop falling? Or would his soul just keep plummeting into this layered abyss? Would it go on forever?

Growing up, the local priests had always warned children of the nightmarish landscapes and suffering that awaited those stuck in Hell. It seemed that this was to be his fate. But he thought back to the woman who’d killed him. The demigod.

_“Even a mortal’s loose lips up in heaven would cause problems for us…”_

_She’s the reason this is happening…_ he thought to himself, his face twisting in a grimace of frustration, _Something was happening in that church…something that the gods don’t know about! I’m in hell because I saw something I shouldn’t!_

The ground drew near, and with a start, Madron realized that what he was seeing was in fact one vast, sprawling building, stretching out as far as the eye could see. Countless pipes and chimneys stuck out from the roof, streams of smoke snaking up past him, and he smelled something that he never thought he’d experience again: the smell of molten metal.

_A forge!_

It was almost a relief when, this time, he really did crash into the surface, all the breath crushed instantly from his lungs as he smashed through a tiled roof, tumbling and flopping into a dingy room.

He lay there, gazing up at the hole he’d just made and the night sky beyond. His body ached, and if his lungs didn’t suddenly feel like pancakes, he would have screamed in terror at what he’d just experienced. And yet, miraculously, as the whirling of his emotions finally died down and he became aware of his body again, he noticed that there was a distinct lack of any pain. Experimentally, he curled his fingers, expecting at least a shattered arm, but they responded just fine. Same with his toes. Slowly, with trepidation, he raised himself into a sitting position, his muscles still trembling from adrenaline.

As he patted himself down, he became aware that his muscles were a lot bigger than they had been before. He’d been no slouch when he was…alive, what with being a blacksmith and all. Nevertheless, he was broader now, bulkier, his chest more defined. Being a blacksmith wouldn’t have given him a chiseled six pack of abs, and yet, that’s what he found himself with. His skin felt taut against his muscles, which rippled with the slightest movement. Most drastically, was the fact that his manhood had become greatly engorged, even while flaccid. Quickly, he climbed to his feet, looking around. 

It seemed that when he’d crashed in through the ceiling, he’d also managed to collapse a wall, giving him a glimpse into a long, narrow hallway, lined with doorways every few feet, through which light shone. The room itself, however, was unmistakably a forge, with an empty slack tub set up next to a massive anvil, and a blazing furnace. Rows of tools lined the walls and a table, most of which he recognized, but some he didn’t.

And then, in the firelight, he realized another change that had befallen him. His skin had become utterly hairless, apart from his head, and had been stained black as night, probably from his time in the black sea. Ash-gray streaks ran around his limbs like tattoos, curling and twisting like snakes.

But then, he noticed that he wasn’t alone. Standing in the corner, shaking and staring at him, was what was unmistakably a kobold. The lizard-like creature had golden bracelets around its wrists and ankles, but wore a set of tattered gray clothing.

“What is this place?” asked Madron.

The scaly thing didn’t answer, simply gazing at him with wide eyes. Or maybe that was just the kobold’s natural state. However, just when he was about to give up and move on, it spoke in a rasp.

“P-please, sir, I don’t understand.”

“This compound. What is it? Why are there forges everywhere?”

A pair of sideways eyelids swept across its bulbous yellow eyes. “Sir was not told before arrival? This is Glitter’s Burden, best smithies in the Circle of Greed.”

Madron grunted. “Tall claim.”

“I-it’s true, sir! M-my workpiece is not finished yet, but I’ve not fallen behind my quota!”

Madron raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “You’re a smith, then?”

“Yes yes!”

“What sorta things would the demons want you making down here?”

The kobold shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, as long as it’s shiny and rare. The Lords like pretty things. My commission is a statue made of mithril.”

“Mithril?!”

The creature cringed at his outraged shout. Even so, Madron couldn’t help it; Mithril was a metal that could create the best magical armor and weapons. To make a statue out of it was a criminal waste. _This place surely must be Hell._

He dragged a hand down his face. “Ugh. Whatever. How do I get out of here?”

“Leave?” The kobold blinked again, cocking its head, “This place is neutral territory. Demons don’t backstab each other around here and no one breaks in. As long as we keep working, we don’t wind up in the slave markets.”

His eyes narrowed, making the kobold flinch. “Damnit. Fine, where can I find an empty forge?”

“I don’t know! Ferdi was let go a while back, check there! Down the hall, on the right, that’s all I know!”

“Hmph.” _I suppose a smithy will let me think things through._ “Alright. Thanks.”

The kobold recoiled in surprise, but Madron was already turning and walking out through the collapsed wall. Turning right, he marched down the hall, looking for a smithy with its light out. _So a blacksmith winds up in a special Hell for blacksmiths, I suppose. Serving up gaudy ornaments to the amusement of demons with no pay in return._ He gritted his teeth, fists clenched. It made his blood boil.

“‘Ey! Over here!”

He blinked, pausing in his stride as a voice called out to him, making him look around.

A glowing red figure waved to him from a doorway, before banging away at an anvil. “Come give this a look, would ya?”

Frowning, he stepped into the smithy. The forge was at a low burn, and the glowing workpiece was laid across the anvil. To his shock, he realized that the occupant of the room, a curvy, red-skinned woman, was actually directly handling the object, seemingly immune to its glowing heat. Though it only made sense; as he got a good look at her, he realized that the glow around her came from within her, through her smooth skin, which bore patches of scales, particularly along her breasts and between her legs. Apart from those, however, she was just as naked as him. “Get me the chisel, would you?” she asked, not looking up.

Nonplussed, Madron crossed to the table and picked up a massive iron spike, bringing it over.

“Good, now hold this down.”

He glanced at the workpiece, still glowing, then at his black hands. “Er…you got any gloves?”

That made her look up at him. “Gloves…ah, shit, I thought you were one ‘a the helpers. Ain’t seen you around before.”

“Just arrived here,” he said dryly, “So, what, you want me to just handle that thing with my bare hands?”

She looked him up and down. “...What, you just get into Hell and you’re already in the Burden? Musta been hot shit when you were alive, huh? Don’t matter, you’re a demon, so don’t worry about the heat.”

Grimacing, Madron reached out slowly, only to blink in surprise when indeed, the workpiece only felt warm to the touch. More surprisingly, it wasn’t even metal at all. “What’s this, obsidian?” he asked, even as she began chiseling away at it.

“‘Course,” she said, jerking her head towards the corner of the room, where a small tree sat in a pot, surrounded by a ring of ash. Rather than wood, it was formed entirely out of obsidian, with glowing lines of fire tracing along its contours. “Got it from my tree. Half Erinyes.” She paused. “Up in the mortal realm, the closest match is a Dryad.”

“You don’t really look like a dryad. And the other half is…?”

She shrugged. “Salamander.” With a smack of the hammer, she dislodged a large chunk of rock. “Before you ask, this thing’s gonna be an Atlatl that grows its own spears outta my obsidian. All the rage down in the Seventh Circle and all. Plus it makes it so that any spear thrown from it will never miss.”

Madron’s eyes widened as she blithely laid out all these high-power quality options. Back home, it would have taken an enchanter several weeks to add just one of those abilities. “You’re saying you can give it all that yourself?” he asked.

She gave him an arched brow. “Of course. No smith would be allowed here if they didn’t know how to make artifacts of that caliber at least. I mean, this’s a bit simple, yeah, but I’m just tryin’ to finish up my quota.”

“Yeah, that kobold down the hall mentioned a quota. What, you gotta pump these out in a month?”

The half-Erinyes shrugged, her pert breasts swaying slightly from the motion. “Yeah, they want us puttin’ out a workpiece three times a month. Though the lower down you go, the more they want from ya, so I’m in no real rush. I’ll work my way outta here eventually.”

“And if you miss your quota?”

She grimaced. “Then they extend how long you gotta work here. I’ve got five hundred twenty three more masterpieces to go. Home stretch.”

“Five…” The more Madron heard about this place, the more it sank in that this really was Hell. _But,_ he mused to himself, _I guess if you can prove that you’re useful, it’s a little less torturous…_ “How can I learn to make things like that?” he asked her.

“I dunno. It won’t be from me though. I’m busy.”

He grunted, even as he noticed that the hunk of obsidian was starting to taper out, forming a slight fork at the end. “I suppose I’ll go looking for someone else then. What’s your name, in case we meet again?”

She only shook her head. “Only the higher ups share their names. No one in the lower ranks gives out their name to anyone who might get power over ‘em later.”

Sighing, Madron decided to leave it at that and left the forge, continuing on down the hallway. Occasionally he would try to peer in through the doors to see what was going on; the countless smithies housed many more creatures, some large, some small, with all different colors of skin, scales, fur or mysterious other that he didn’t want to look too closely at.

Not all of them were banging away at the anvil, however, instead fiddling with materials as if they were clay, or chiseling at them, even _weaving_ in some cases. The looms that he glimpsed in those workspaces made his skin crawl just looking at them, all angular monstrosities with spider-like limbs. He jumped as for a moment, it felt like something actually _did_ crawl or writhe underneath his skin, but when he felt his bicep, nothing was wrong (apart from how big it was).

His stomach growled for a moment, making him grimace; he must have been falling for hours, and even before then, he hadn’t even had time to have some dinner before he’d gotten killed… _Wait. I’m_ dead. _How can I be hungry?!_

Suddenly a shadow fell over him, making him look up. Despite his usual stoic demeanor, he couldn’t help but goggle in astonishment as a beast filled the hallway. Its lower body was that of a horse, but covered in thick plates of oxidized-looking carapace, while its upper half was a massive, rippling, muscular, mottled blue humanoid torso that was twice as wide as he was, topped off with a flat bull-like face, with sharpened horns.

The thing gripped a massive polearm in one hand, its end a heavy, spiked maul, though it was actually more decently made than Madron would have expected for a demon this brutish-looking, with six sides and evenly spaced spikes. The fact that said maul was planted deep inside the bloody chest of a lizardman barely registered with him. When it did, though, he flinched, looking up at the...deviltaur, or whatever it was. It simply stared back at him, snorting.

“What…happened here?” he asked slowly.

 **“Missed three quotas in a row,”** it rumbled in a voice like wet muck and gravel, **“No chances left.”**

Madron turned back to the dead (double dead?) being. “...Ah,” he said simply.

Despite himself, his stomach growled again, making the deviltaur paw the ground, suddenly giving him a closer look. **“Glutton?”** it asked, eyes narrowing.

“Huh?”

 **“Only demons strong in Gluttony hunger enough to notice.”** It cast a look at the body, then gave another bull-like snort. **“Hmph. If you want him, take him. Kobold flesh doesn’t make for good recycling.”**

Madron blinked hard. “...I’m sorry, are you implying that I should eat that poor bastard?”

The deviltaur gave him a slow blink right back. **“Yes?”**

As the ex-blacksmith began rubbing his forehead, wondering if this was just some weird form of hellish torture, his stomach growled again...and this time, his flesh rippled. He jumped with a yelp as seams began to form all over his body, his night-black skin bubbling and forming bright red eyes. Then, to his horror, he _unfolded,_ his chest and arms transforming into a writhing mass of red and black tentacles, which shot forward and stabbed into the kobold’s body. The deviltaur quickly retreated a few steps, lifting its maul away. He could feel countless tiny mouths opening up along their lengths, and rows upon rows more of saw-like teeth sprouting even between those.

The tendrils began to pulse and bulge as they ripped through the corpse, absorbing it bit by bit and into his body, until not even bones remained. Then, just as quickly as they’d arrived, they melted back into him, leaving him standing shellshocked in the hallway. He wanted to scream with horror and terror, the image of his very own body coming to life against his will and transforming into some sort of abomination seared into his mind. The black sea that he’d plunged through, the one that had eaten away at his old body…that must have been what did this.

However, before he could dwell any further on it, a tidal wave of information suddenly washed over Madron. For a split second, he was lost in the total inundation, before it all suddenly clicked, some automatic process now buried in his subconscious assimilating it. He instantly became aware of _everything._ That was to say, everything that he had devoured, from the physical information of the kobold’s body, to everything that he had known. The crafting techniques that he had built up during life, the masterwork skills he’d been taught after death, and the eternal gruelling work to which he’d been assigned until he could no longer keep up.

Madron’s horror gave way to equal parts fascination and understanding as the fundamentals of living in hell suddenly made themselves apparent to him. For one, the kobold whose corpse he’d just devoured was not suddenly gone forever. Sooner or later, his soul would reconstitute into a new body or find its way into the River Lethe for reincarnation.

For another, being in Glitter’s Burden required truly gargantuan amounts of skill and knowledge. That knowledge was in fact taught to those who proved themselves worthy of entering, by the more experienced craftsmen imprisoned there. However, the lizardman had not learned until too late that it was those teachings that caused them to become indebted to the workshop, sentenced to churn out masterpieces until they either failed, or somehow worked long enough to earn their freedom.

The latter was certainly possible, but very few ever managed it. Those who failed, like the Kobold (whose name Madron learned had been Lyelashri), would be doomed to start their quotas all over again from zero once they reconstituted. Reincarnation was a very remote chance, given that Glitter’s Burden was suspended high in the air above the main Circle.

And yet, despite the place being a trap for aspiring crafters, it was still appealing enough to draw them to it in the first place. It was much safer to live than the normal parts of Hell, owing to the fact that the Deviltaurs (which, funnily enough, was their actual name) patrolled the place for security. The Shayatin Lord wanted the workers to be productive, after all, and productivity would decrease if they constantly had to fight off demons who had a beef with them.

In addition, any crafter who managed to find a place in the Burden would find themselves with the opportunity to unleash their creativity, thanks to their new understanding and near-unlimited resources. That same understanding called to Madron now, making his heart (did he even really have a heart anymore?) start to speed up in his chest. “‘Ey,” he said to the Deviltaur, who had backed up slightly when he’d devoured Lyelashri, “I wanna start a project. There an issue with me taking that space?” He pointed at the ex-kobold’s now empty smithy.

The massive, hulking demon gazed down at him for a long moment, brow furrowed. Then it grunted, lifting its maul to rest over its shoulder. **“This workspace is now vacant.”** With that simple announcement, it turned and trotted away at a brisk pace, leaving him alone.

Relieved that he’d been granted permission so easily, Madron quickly slipped into the room, closing the door behind him. Now that he knew what to look for, the various tools in the room called to him, his hands itching to take them up and make something. At least that was a sensation he was used to, not the...nightmare that his body had transformed into. He shook himself, trying to forget the sight, even as the ash-gray markings across his body seemed to shift. Striding over to the furnace, he snapped his fingers, a rune on top flashing briefly, before the flames roared to life. There were no bellows, but he didn’t need them; the flames would adjust themselves to his specifications, at least up to a point.

Next, he crossed to the wall by the tool rack, and placed a palm on the round copper plate mounted there. The kobold’s knowledge helpfully informed him that this would allow him to communicate with a Quartermaster. Of course, each craftsman had a monthly (or what passed for a month in Hell) allowance of how much they could withdraw, and they would need to provide the reason for such a withdrawal. Since Lyelashri had been terminated, his allowance was up for grabs until he reconstituted. “I’m going to need a four by eight-foot sheet of Glimmer Mica, ten kilos of Miridan-grain, some old golem gears and fifty grams of obsidian, preferably in small shards, but also sand if possible. I’m making a clock. Take it outta Lyelashri’s account.”

There was a moment of silence, before a metallically flanged voice answered back. “Order and purpose confirmed.”

A moment later, the requested materials appeared soundlessly on a side table, discreetly separated into piles. The wood was dark, with glimmering green crystals running through it like veins through marble, and the sheet of mica shone brightly in the fire, far more so than a normal layer of the fragile stone ought to, especially since it was paper thin. By contrast, the gears looked old and dirty, but Madron’s new knowledge, combined with his old blacksmithing, told him that it would be easy to rehabilitate them with some heat before reshaping them to suit his needs.

Cracking his neck, he took a saw from the tool table and began to meticulously shear away the rough edges of the wood, in order to form the main frame of his project. _Never was one for woodworking,_ he thought to himself, even as he cut away one end, _But I can’t get by with just one craft here. That’s what got that guy killed. The demons down here want something flashy? Please. They’ve never had to deal with adventurers wanting the ‘coolest’ sword or the ‘strongest’ shield._

The blacksmith was out of his depth, he knew, but now that he’d hit rock bottom, all that he had to do was start climbing. No matter how long it took, he would master everything Glitter’s Burden had to throw at him, and then leave. Whatever happened after that would happen. Whatever he was now, for he surely couldn’t be human anymore, he would make sure that no one would be able to push him around and make him give up, like the unfortunate kobold.

 _Lyelashri learned a lot in this place,_ thought Madron, setting down the now straightened planks of wood, _But he only ever took his lessons so far. He had the makings of greatness, but never realized how to make use of them. I’ll use them in his stead._

Picking up the gears, he placed them onto a tray and slid them into the fire, until they glowed red. Then, plucking them out and ignoring their burning heat, he took up the hammer.

_Clang. Clang. Clang…_

With every strike, his enhanced muscles trembled, and a light began to shine in Madron’s eyes. One by one, the thoughts of his own death and transformation began to fall away as his world narrowed down to the workpiece, and how he imagined it.

_Clang. Clang._

_CLANG!_

Far, far below, as the newest denizen of the Glitter’s Burden pounded away at the demonic metal, bending it to his design, a pair of eyes opened, and turned to watch a point above them.

**Author's Note:**

> Madron Cheval  
> Status: Nascent  
> Sins: Gluttony  
> Ambition: Kindling  
> Fold-status: N/A


End file.
